


In Between Time

by pukajen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, John's POV, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6225391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukajen/pseuds/pukajen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is so tired that he thinks just paying to sleep in the cab for what's left of the night is a solid plan. Though, the cabbie might reach 221B in record time. (The hundred pound note Sherlock flashed when they got in probably had something to do with their driver's disregard for local traffic laws.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Between Time

**Author's Note:**

> Between being sick since Boxing Day (some *lovely rounds of antibiotics), losing my netbook, work stuff, and training for a marathon (including an injury), I havne't been writing at all. This was a good way to start again.

London flies by in a blurry smudge of colours as rain pelts the cab. At this time of night, morning really, there is little traffic on the road and they are travelling well above the speed limit. 

Not that John cares overly much. It's been nearly a week on the case tracking down and finding (alive) terrified two children and their equally terrified nanny in a horrible case of mistaken identity. 

There had been little time for sleep as they worked around the clock with the Met to find them. 

John is so tired that he thinks just paying to sleep in the cab for what's left of the night is a solid plan. Though, the cabbie might reach 221B in record time. (The hundred pound note Sherlock flashed when they got in probably had something to do with their driver's disregard for local traffic laws.)

John wonders if he'll fall asleep before they make it home. He wonders if, when the get home (assuming he's awake) if he'll be able to make it up the stairs to their flat. Maybe he can just collapse and sleep on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson should be long ago to bed and she tends to stay in her own flat late on the weekends. 

Or, he could sleep here. Forever. Be a form of installation art that Londoners tell each other about. 

'Oh, have you ridden in the taxi with the sleeping man?'

'Did you think he ever moves.'

'Some one told me he used to run around with that nutter Sherlock Holmes.' 

A warm hand covers John's own where it rests on his left thigh pulling him back to reality.

“Nearly home,” Sherlock murmurs.

Blinking blearily, John tries to smile, tries to tell Sherlock that he did brilliantly on the case. That the way Sherlock had swept through the burning corridor of the abandoned (and incredibly rank) restaurant to rescue the kids (and, frankly, at nineteen the nanny was little more than a child herself), was both terrifying and marvellous. 

Not that John hadn't been right on Sherlock's coattails, ignoring the licks of flame (pushing down memories of other fire) and crashing through the door to the storage room where the children had been locked up. 

But, John too tired to do much more than nod in acknowledgement of Sherlock's statement. 

Beside him, John senses Sherlock tense, the hand on his starts to withdraw. 

Mustering what little energy he has left, John turns his hand over and laces his fingers with Sherlock's.

His hand is so much smaller than Sherlock's, but they fit together fairly well. And, despite the exhaustion, a small thrill manages to work its way through John's tired body at the sight.

It's so new what they have, barely a week old. They weren't more than thirty-two hours into this new stage of their relationship when Lestrade had burst into their flat demanding Sherlock answer his bloody phone. There was no question of not helping, no question of ignoring Lestrade, but a part of John wished (wishes) they'd had more time to establish what they are to each other before being thrust into the mêlée of an intense investigation. 

John tightens his grip a little, making sure that Sherlock's knows his touch is most wanted. 

Tentatively, Sherlock's thumb strokes along the inside of John's wrist. John wonders at the touch; if Sherlock is caressing him or taking his pulse. 

Probably both. The way Sherlock is studying their hands, face filled with confusion and wonder and tenderness causes John's heart to stutter.

“Hi, love,” John says, giving Sherlock a tired smile. 

“Hello,” Sherlock answers, a smile of his own turning up his lips. “You look awful.”

“Ta very much,” John snorts. 

“No. I mean, you look wonderful.” Confusion passes over Sherlock's face; a look John knows well when words fail to express what Sherlock means to say. “You always look wonderful, but right now, you also look awful.” There's a bit of a panicked look about Sherlock's face now and his words are tumbling together at rapid pace with barely a pause between. “You're pale, grey nearly. With deep bags under your eyes. Not that you don't often have bags under your eyes, but they're you so they're lovely. Well, when I say lovely, I mean that they're—“

John cuts off Sherlock's words with a kiss. It takes Sherlock's mouth a moment to stop talking, but then there's a soft sigh and Sherlock nearly collapses onto John. 

The weight is unexpected and John doesn't really have it in him to support himself, let alone another human being as long and gangly (and surprisingly heavy) as Sherlock. They slump against the door of the cab, with Sherlock letting out a surprised grunt when their mouths part.

Instead of starting back up where he was cut off, Sherlock burrows into John sighing in contentment. He brings their tangled hands to rest on his right thigh starts rubbing the back of John's hand with his left index finger. It's a bit awkward, but John can't be arsed to care. Not with the lovely warm weight of a relaxed and blissful Sherlock pressing into him. 

John lets out a content sigh of his own and drifts into a space between sleep and consciousness that seems nearly drugged for the floating, happy way he feels, except for the grounding sensation of Sherlock tracing the veins on the back of John's hand. 

This is the nicest that John has ever felt, (that's a bit of a lie, that second time when they took ages and John ended up coming so hard he nearly passed out and Sherlock was non-verbal by the end, was the best that John has ever felt) but this is nearly as good. He feels safe and happy and loved and in love and as if his life is just beginning for real. 

That no matter what, he and Sherlock have weathered the worst the world has to throw at them and are strong and happy and will be able to face the rest of their lives together. 

Shortly, they'll be home and stumble up the seventeen steps to their flat, strip down (maybe shower, though John doubts it) and tumble into bed. Tomorrow (later today), John has plans (vast plans, plans years in the making) that he wants to start on, but for right now, all John wants is to crawl into bed beside Sherlock and sleep. Content in the knowledge that person he loves most in the world will be there beside him when he wakes.


End file.
